


Of Talking and Traitors

by Madlyie



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Staring the Nicola Tesla shirt, Triumvirate Sunday Breakfasts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 05:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6316108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madlyie/pseuds/Madlyie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe Courfeyrac should think before he starts talking. Or maybe it’s actually a good thing that he doesn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Talking and Traitors

**Author's Note:**

> It has come to my attention… that I can’t stop writing Courferre lately. Well. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Enjoy.♥

***

 

Maybe, Courfeyrac thinks in a moment of clarity, probably a consequence of the shock, it  _is_ better to think before talking. Usually he wouldn’t have a problem with talking, he likes talking, he actually considers himself to be quite good at talking. He’s witty, funny, considerate and generally amazing, thank you very much.

Combeferre is a strong advocate for the belief that it’s better to think about what you’re going to say instead of simply saying it but then Combeferre also does  _not_ have the problem thinking clearly around Combeferre that Courfeyrac has. Because Combeferre isn’t in love with Combeferre but… Courfeyrac is.

 

And there’s the problem.

 

Well, not really. The actual problem is that Courfeyrac or more precisely Courfeyrac’s big, stupid mouth just decided to blurt out exactly that.

Well, almost but it’s close enough for him to start panicking. Slightly (more than slightly).

They’re having their weakly Sunday morning breakfast in Combeferre’s and Enjolras’s flat because Enjolras for the early riser he is during the week can’t be bothered to be out of his pyjamas before noon on a Sunday. His head is currently lying on the table top and all Courfeyrac can see is a fraction of his forehead and the tip of his nose which are not buried under blonde curls.

Combeferre reads the newspaper like a suburban grandpa making affirmative noises while Courfeyrac chats away about his last absolutely terrible date which was sad but also kind of hilarious.

He might be in love with the cross-word-doing nerd that is his best friend in front of him who shouldn’t look that sexy with uncombed bed hair wearing a too big shirt with a giant face of Nicola Tesla on it but a happy end to said disaster is only to be found in Courfeyrac’s most far fetched fantasies so sometimes he passes his time otherwise even if it never leads to anything in the end. He’s human after all.

Maybe that’s why he lets himself be distracted by the way Combeferre’s long, elegant fingers turn the page of the newspaper, Courfeyrac is just human so he doesn’t realize what he’s answering when Combeferre says with amusement in his voice, “Dating seems to be quite difficult, doesn’t it?”

 

“You’re telling me, I mean especially when you’re in love with your –”

 

His mouth falls shut, horrified and yes, maybe he should really take the time to think before talking. Even though the epiphany comes a little too late because he has already messed up, messed up  _badly._

Combeferre’s eyes snap away from the newspaper and Enjolras sits up so abruptly that Courfeyrac would be afraid he’d fall off his chair if he hadn’t been so busy panicking.

“You what?” Combeferre asks frowning slightly and something in his voice that Courfeyrac can’t decipher because his brain is scrambling for a response that is not ‘you’ and eventually – inexplicably – settles on, “My, uhm. My… yoga instructor?”

 

_What?!_

 

Combeferre’s frown deepens. “Your yoga instructor?” he repeats slowly.

Courfeyrac’s eyes flicker to Enjolras helplessly but his traitor of a friend doesn’t say a word and just looks like he’s debating getting popcorn for the spectacle, that asshole.

“Yes uhm, exactly. My yoga instructor.” It does not sound better the more often he says it.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Combeferre asks and great, now he sounds hurt which makes Courfeyrac feel guilty which does  _not_ help his situation. At all.

“It’s a very new thing,” he tries to explain and it’s technically not a lie because the thing with his yoga instructor has been going on for about half a minute. The Combeferre-thing has been going on since he was, well, he doesn’t really remember the exact moment. It probably has always been there, in a way.

Combeferre carefully folds the paper and lays it down on the table. “That’s nice,” he says earnestly. “What’s their name?”

Names. Right. People have those.

 _Come on brain, names_ , Courfeyrac orders.

“Jean?”

It sounds more like a question and Enjolras looks like he has a very hard time keeping it together and Courfeyrac wants to kick him but his legs aren’t long enough.

Combeferre keeps looking at him expectantly which Courfeyrac can understand because usually he never shuts up about well, everything but the situation is not exactly usual for his standards.

Enjolras seems to have come to the decision to take mercy on him. “I’ve met your yoga instructor, two weeks ago when I picked you up because your Vespa didn’t want to start again, you remember?”

Courfeyrac feels bad for wanting to kick him because Combeferre stops looking at him to turn to Enjolras which makes it a lot easier to concentrate.

“Yes! Of course, Enjolras met him, he’s great. Totally. So great. Right?”

Enjolras takes a tantalizingly slow sip of his coffee. “Yeah,” he says, “I had a very nice chat with your… yoga instructor.”

Courfeyrac does not like his tone. Not even a little bit. He can only watch in horror when Enjolras continues, “She’s a lovely lady. Her name’s Mia. She’s in her forties I would say, married, two kids. Her son Garrett is gay and I think she was a little disappointed when I told her I already have a lovely boyfriend which, in retrospect, don’t tell Grantaire I said that. Her other son Michael is doing something called Krav Maga which sounds mildly terrifying if I’m honest. You take an awful long time to change, you know that?”

He stands up completely unfazed while Courfeyrac is speechless for a second time that morning and even more horrified what he didn’t think was in the realm of possibility. “Nice try. Pathetic,” Enjolras shrugs and pats Courfeyrac’s back, “but A for effort.”

Before he leaves the room he turns around again and very seriously and only a little bit smugly says, “You’re welcome.”

_Et tu Brute?_

Courfeyrac is pretty sure that at this point he has stopped breathing while his heart is beating twice as fast.

Combeferre pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose which is just. not. fair.

“So… you want to tell me what that was?” he asks deliberately in that calm but firm tone that  _does_ things to Courfeyrac which are… not the point right now.

“Uhm…” Great start, really, _amazing_. “I’m not in love with my yoga instructor?” he suggests with a wince.

“I figured that much,” Combeferre says dryly but Courfeyrac knows him. He’s one of his two best friends in the whole world for crying out loud so he  _knows_ him, enough to unmistakably recognize the expression on his face for relief. Which is. odd.

Or, the hopeful, deeply buried part of his brain supplies, maybe it’s not. And Courfeyrac should have learned his lesson by then but he doesn’t dare to stop to think before the surprisingly large amount of courage that suddenly dwells up inside him vanishes into thin air again, and says, “I’m in love with _you_.”

Combeferre blinks, surprised.

And well, he doesn’t look repulsed which Courfeyrac didn’t expect because it’s  _Combeferre_ but is still a relief.

“You… _really_?” Combeferre asks, brown eyes wide and absolutely taken aback.

Courfeyrac doesn’t trust his voice so he just nods.

A smile spreads over Combeferre’s face that would have taken Courfeyrac’s breath away if there had been any breath left in his lungs.

Combeferre stands up, walks around the table and before Courfeyrac can comprehend what is happening he’s kissed within an inch of his life and it takes a moment for his brain to catch up but then he’s kissing back, kissing  _Combeferre_ back who tastes like coffee and honey, warm and sweet. There’s a hand in his hair and another one on his hips pulling him up on his feet and then his whole body is pressed against Combeferre’s and he lets out a gasp or a whimper or a moan or a mixture of all three, he can’t really bring himself to care.

“Not in the goddamn kitchen!” Enjolras shouts from the other room but Courfeyrac happily ignores the backstabbing traitor.

He’s going to thank him later.

 

***

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, there's [tumblr](http://vintage-jehan.tumblr.com/).


End file.
